


Freak

by Redcrow



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Angst, M/M, Work In Progress
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-03-24
Updated: 2013-11-23
Packaged: 2017-12-06 08:25:41
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 6
Words: 5,868
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/733578
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Redcrow/pseuds/Redcrow
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Of all the people to have called Sherlock a freak, the one that hurt the most was John.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This is a work in progress, I have no idea how long it's going to be or when it will be completed. It will get edited and anything is subject to change.  
> I have rated it as explicit as I plan on make up sex sooner or later.
> 
> These characters are not mine, I just borrow them from time to time.

 

 

 

“He knows you’re alive and he has been informed of the necessity of your actions.”

Sherlock shifted in the back of the car and turned to look at his brother.

“You should have come to me sooner Sherlock. I don’t believe you can gloss over the damage this has done.” Mycroft gazed down at the paperwork in his lap, pointedly avoiding his brother’s stare.

“I didn’t have time for that and you know it. Despite the faith I’ve managed to find in you, that does not extend to the people who work for you.” Sherlock felt the sting of regret and fear, it was an emotion he had felt far too often in recent months and it increased in frequency the closer he got to Baker Street.  
“And you should have allowed me to explain to John, that was my responsibility.”

“No Sherlock, I don’t think you understand how much damage a dead man just turning up out of the blue would have done. I did the only thing I could, much like yourself.” Mycroft sighed. “Just be careful Sherlock, tread lightly.”

The car slowed and stopped at the kerbside. Much to his surprise Mycroft had leaned over and clasped Sherlock’s hand. 

“Let’s not get sentimental brother.” Sherlock’s tone was scathing but he squeezed Mycrot’s hand in return before letting go and opening the door. He turned back briefly as Mycroft spoke.

“Good luck.”

Sherlock waited for the sleek black car to slip away, he watched it disappear around the corner at the end of Baker Street before stepping up to the door of 221B. He had waited for this, he had fought for this and now that he was here, he couldn’t bring himself to knock.  Eventually Sherlock lifted a hand only to discover the door unlocked, he stepped inside and slowly climbed the seventeen stairs up to the familiar living room.

Reaching the top of the staircase Sherlock stopped, the silhouette of his friend in the window, turned. His breath caught in his chest, his heart thumped loudly in his ears and for a moment he could not move.

“John.” Somehow Sherlock had managed to keep his voice steady for that one important word, though he doubted his ability to speak anymore. He waited, for a word, a movement, anything.

“Why didn’t you tell me Sherlock?” John took a step towards him.

Sherlock swallowed not trusting his voice “I did what I had to do to keep you safe.”

“Don’t give me that crap. Why didn’t you trust me? We were supposed to be friends Sherlock.”

John moved towards him again, his features becoming more visible and Sherlock stepped forward closing the gap between them.

“I had no time to tell you and even if I had, I couldn’t. I am sorry John, it was the only way, you had to believe I was dead, you had believe I was a fraud…” 

“I know, Mycroft explained everything. Something else you failed to tell me yourself.”

“I have done many things I regret over the last few months, deceiving you is far from the least of them.” Sherlock’s gaze dropped to the floor.

There was a creaking of floorboards and Sherlock raised his eyes to the face he had so longed to see. John stood before him close enough to reach out and touch but neither moved. 

“I am sor..” Sherlock began to speak.

“Shut up.” John moved forward again and without thought or warning wrapped his arms around the neck of his friend. His feelings of anger and betrayal momentarily forgotten.  
In that moment Sherlock could have sworn his heart stopped. His stood for a second, frozen to the spot and then he found himself returning the embrace. With his hands smoothing down John’s back and his face turned into John’s neck, he breathed in the scent of home. It was then that Sherlock lost himself. For once his mind seemed to shut down and his emotions took over. His left hand moved up to the nape of John’s neck, his lips brushed across the lightly stubbled cheek and before his brain had even registered what his body was doing, his lips pressed against those of the army doctor before him.

John’s body went rigid, his eyes flew open and his hands left Sherlock’s shoulders only to make contact again to shove him roughly backwards.  
“What the fuck…?”

Sherlock stood dumbfounded, he couldn’t explain his actions even to himself, he shook his head slightly but said nothing.

“Get out of here you…you FUCKING FREAK!”

John’s scream was worse than a fist. Those words struck Sherlock like a train, he stumbled backwards, his eyes wide, his mouth hanging open in shock. He reached out blindly as he lost his footing, clutching at the door frame, barely holding himself up.  
The back of his hand raised to his mouth he turned away from the expression of disgust so clearly etched on John’s face and blundered down the stairs. Flinging the door of 221B open Sherlock almost fell from the doorstep. He grabbed the railings to his right and steadied himself before his faltering steps carried him away from home yet again.

Almost as soon as he turned off Baker Street all of Sherlock’s strength left him and fell back against the wall at the opening of an alleyway. His eyes were stinging, his sight was blurred and he realized he was weeping. Feeling his way along the wall, he stopped when the sounds of the city grew quieter. One arm outstretched, his palm flat on the bricks, his body doubled over as his stomach rejected it’s contents. 

He stood shaking and gasping until the nausea slowly decreased.

______


	2. Chapter 2

It was like a dream, a bad dream, oh hell a very bad dream and John was watching it, helpless to stop the words he shouted, helpless to take them back. He was so damn angry, he barely knew what he'd said until it was too late.

Scrubbing a hand over his forehead, John dropped into his armchair. He was shaking with rage, that fucking bastard had lied and deceived and now....John's train of thought stopped, he smoothed a fingertip over his lips, frowning. His phoned buzzed and he grabbed at it, suddenly frantic, he saw the name on the screen and returned it to the table with a sigh. There was no way he was going to talk to Mycroft right now.

The anger was starting to fade and as it slowly disappeared John started to realise that he was considerably more pleased to see Sherlock than he had even admitted to himself, despite the feelings of betrayal. Life without Sherlock had been grey and empty, his limp had returned inexplicably and he found himself retreating into a reclusive existence. He thought about Sherlock all the time, he tried to use Sherlock's deductive skills, he wondered what Sherlock would do and say at certain times, even snapping at strangers when their stupidity rubbed him up the wrong way, on occasions, in much the same way Sherlock used to. John even woke in the middle of night to silence instead of the incessant scrapings of that damn violin.

The one date John had been on since being in 221B alone, was set up by Sarah and he went purely out of politeness. The woman was pretty, interesting, and tactile, all the things he usually liked but in his minds eye, every time she leaned close and spoke to him, he saw green/blue eyes in place of her brown ones, black curls instead of straight blonde hair and he heard a deep resonant voice. Then, he convinced himself it was just grief for his friend, now he wasn't so sure.

John had stood and watched as Sherlock ran from the flat, he had felt numb, disconnected and powerless. He saw that tall body faltering, clutching the door frame in his mind now and realised Sherlock had never run from an awkward situation in his life, at least not as far as John was aware. All the jibes and put downs from the likes of Anderson were tackled head on with, usually, a sharp and scathing come back. Physical attacks were tackled in a similar manner. But oh god, this, this time Sherlock had bolted. His face, oh god Sherlock's face when he had shouted 'freak'.

There was a deep constriction in John's chest, he gasped and doubled over in the chair. 

"Jesus Christ, what have I done?" He asked aloud to the empty room.  
_____

Coughing and leaning on the wall Sherlock's phone buzzed. For a moment his breath caught thinking it could be John but it couldn't be, could it? He fumbled for his phone and held it up to see a missed call from Mycroft. He groaned and dropped the phone back in his pocket.

Sherlock closed his eyes and saw John's face again contorted in anger and repulsion, his eyes flew open. He was sure John hated him now, really did see him as a freak, how could someone like John ever truly be his friend? What was there for him now? The one person he had ever wanted to be with, in any way, the one person who had ever tolerated him, now thought of him as a deviant, a psychopath, a freak, just like everyone else. And it was entirely his own fault.

Sherlock finally straightened up and began to walk. He walked with no clear destination or purpose, he just walked and the image of John's face, twisted in repugnance, would not leave him. Why had he done that, why had he kissed John? He had never had such a strong impulse to kiss anyone before, why now and why John?

For the first time in years he wanted a hit, he wanted the oblivion, the darkness, the absence of self awareness. What would it matter now if he relapsed? Wouldn't that be best for everyone? Prove them all right, wouldn't it be easy to just slip away? Let his drug of choice drag him down away from this mess. His head swam with questions he couldn't answer but he was sure of one thing now. He was positive that he had just completely killed the only relationship that ever meant anything to him. The one thing he had strived to get back to, the one thing he had fought and killed for. They were right after all. All of them, every person to ever insult him, they were all right. He was a monster, a freak.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> These characters are not mine, I just borrow then from time to time.


	3. Chapter 3

There were two conflicting impulses in John. One was to take off after Sherlock. He could kill him. The second was to ignore what had happened and carry on with his day. The former was winning him over when an image flashed through mind, followed by an intense emotion he didn’t know how to process. John brushed his fingertips over his lips and realized that if he did manage to find Sherlock he had no idea what to say to him.

The latter just wasn’t going to happen. John could not get the image to leave his mind and it was made all the more distracting by the fact that the more he thought about it, the less weird the kiss seemed.

In all his forty years John had never once questioned his sexuality. He had only ever been sexually attracted to women and rarely lacked the attention of the opposite sex. Though this attention never seemed to last long once he had moved into 221B. Yes Sherlock was often frosty with his girlfriends, regularly unintentionally rude, sometimes intentionally but maybe the problem was with John, not so much his flatmate? Maybe John himself was unconsciously sabotaging his relationships? Maybe he just wasn’t being honest with himself?

John jumped out of skin when his phone suddenly rang loudly. How long had he been sitting here thinking about this? The phone rang again and he grabbed it up, hitting accept before he’d registered the name on the screen. 

“Yes.”

“Doctor Watson, do you happen to know where my brother has gone?”

“Oh Mycroft, um no. Why?” John asked suspiciously.

“My people saw him leave, they described his state as …unexpected. Please come to door Doctor and let me in. We need to talk.”

“Now isn’t a good ti..”

“Now is the only time John.”

John put down the phone and slowly made his way to the front door. He could not remember Mycroft ever calling him by his first name before.

__

John had automatically put the kettle on after they had both climbed the stairs to the living room. This is what the English did in a crisis, make tea and John really needed something to do with his hands. After a few minutes he handed Mycroft a cup and saucer and sat down facing him.

Mycroft peered over his teacup at John, he swallowed and put his cup down.

“Now that we have dealt with the customary pleasantries, I think you had better to tell me what happened Doctor Watson?”

John drew in a deep breath though his nose and blew it out though pursed lips. So much for using my first name, he thought. He started to recount the earlier events. 

“…well we hugged.”

Mycroft’s eyebrows shot up.

“I was just so happy to see him, despite being really pissed off with him at the same time.” John stopped and took a deep breath before continuing again.” I don’t know why but he …well he kissed me.”

Mycroft rose from the couch, his expression serious.

“Are you sure it was a kiss.” 

“Yes I’m fucking sure, I know what a kiss feels like.”

“This is massive John, he has never tried to connect with anyone this way before. We need to find him.” Mycroft turned to door.

“I’m afraid that’s not all.” John said stopping him in his tracks. ”I pushed him away and I..” John scrubbed a his thumb and fingers over his forehead “..I was shocked confused and oh shit! I called him a freak.”

Mycroft turned back to face John.

“We need to find him NOW.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's a short one, sorry.
> 
> These characters are not mine, I just borrow them from time to time.


	4. Chapter 4

The daylight was starting to fade and the air was taking on a distinct chill. Sherlock pulled his coat tighter about himself and glanced around, taking in his surroundings properly for the first time since he started walking. He was in a backstreet, wider than an alleyway but unused by traffic, just big enough for loading and unloading. He leaned against a rubbish skip and shivered as the chill from the cold metal seeped through the fabric of his coat.  
Sherlock watched the colour drain from the red bricks surrounding him as the light dwindled. He felt grey himself, colourless and empty, the great Sherlock Holmes had no idea what to do next, he wondered why his heart was still beating, why his lungs continued to fill with air.

Sherlock's phone buzzed and he dug into his pocket, silencing it without looking to see the identity of the caller. His fingers brushed over crumpled cardboard as he replaced his phone and he pulled out the half empty pack of cigarettes, he had forgotten they were there. He tapped out one long white cylinder, placing it in his lips and patted his pockets, hunting for a lighter.

"Need a light mate?"

Sherlock turned, momentarily taken aback that he had not heard or seen the approach of the man now speaking to him.  
"Er yes, ...thank you."

The man was about his age and height, old worn clothes, not had a haircut in months, unshaven. Sherlock studied the man in more detail as he approached and held up a zippo, Sherlock drew on the cigarette as the flame touched the end. Nicotine stains on the fingers, smell of cannabis on his clothes, faint residue of white powder under his nose. Sherlock stiffened.

"You looking for a hit mate?" 

Sherlock exhaled a lung full of smoke and considered the question. Twenty minutes ago he may have given a different answer but now...he shook his head.  
"No. Just the light, thanks."

"You sure mate? Got some nice charlie."

As Sherlock opened his mouth to answer in the negative again, three more men walked around the corner. He drew on the cigarette again and quickly appraised his situation. There were four men, all close to or over six foot in height, medium to heavy build, obviously streetwise and judging by the scattering of old scars not unfamiliar with fighting. He was in a dead end, the only way out was the way he had come in, now blocked and one fire escape, the ladder too high to reach.  
Sherlock blew the smoke out of his lungs and spoke in a neutral tone.

"I'm not interested."

"Well ain't that a shame boys, the gentleman in the expensive coat doesn't want our business." The man spoke as the others surrounded Sherlock.

"Look I don't want any trouble, just..."

"Too late for that mate, give me your wallet and we might not have to mess up that pretty face." The words were spoken with humour, but the slight grin turned into something more sinister by the last two words.

Sherlock realized these men were looking for some fun and their fun was going to involve inflicting pain, regardless of whether they got his wallet or not. He took one last breath of smoke, reached into the inside pocket of his coat with his free hand, feigning retrieving his wallet and flicked the cigarette into the man's eyes.  
Several things happened at once. The first was a shout of pain and annoyance from man before him, the next was a flying fist that Sherlock tried and failed to avoid. The blow made contact with his jaw, making him stumble backwards, crashing into the skip, the other two men surged towards him.  
Sherlock fought like a cornered animal, which in effect he was. He lashed out with a ferocious kick, connecting with the knee of the man that had punched him. The man swore loudly and fell to ground, clutching his leg as his two companions grabbed a hold of Sherlock's arms and bent them savagely behind his back.  
The next blow was low in his stomach, making Sherlock double over and cough painfully. One of them wrenched his head up by his hair and another punch to the face made his vision blur and white out. For a moment Sherlock wondered, in a disconnected way if they were going to kill him and then they threw him on ground.

He lay there gasping and bleeding as rough hands stripped his pockets of his wallet, phone and even his cigarettes. One last vicious kick was aimed at his genitals, obviously intending to add insult to injury. Sherlock managed to move just enough to avoid the boot making contact with the intended area and that unfortunately was a mistake.  
Unbelievable pain exploded from near his right hip, quickly spreading out across his lower abdomen. He screamed and folded in on himself, eyes screwed tightly shut. He tasted blood in his mouth and a dark warm wetness spread quickly though his shirt and trousers.  
Sherlock was vaguely aware of their footsteps as they left him, chuckling and dividing up their spoils. He lifted his head enough to see the booted feet disappear around the corner and then his vision blurred, his body convulsed, ejected the blood that was filling his mouth and stomach and the world went black.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 'Charlie' is a UK street word for cocaine.
> 
> As always these characters are not mine, I just borrow them and torture them from time to time.


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm finding it quite unreal and flattering that anyone is actually reading any of this. I'm sorry my chapters are so short in comparison to others but it seems to be the way it goes for me. I will try to increase them but I'd rather they naturally came to an end rather than forcing extra words in there (if you know what I mean).  
> Thank you so much for reading and thanks even more for taking the time to tell me anything you think about it.

This wasn’t the first time John had sat nervously in the back of Mycroft’s car. This time there’s was no Anthea and Mycroft was very tight lipped. He leaned forward and pushed the button to raise the privacy shield between them and the driver.

“What’s going on Mycroft, why are you so concerned right now? It’s not like Sherlock can’t take care of himself.”

“It’s complicated John.”

The first name again. John found himself increasingly anxious as to where this was all leading.

“It is not my place to tell you everything John but you should know how important that kiss must have been for my brother. Apart from ‘research’ Sherlock has had only one sexual experience that I or anyone else is aware of and it was not a pleasant one. It happened while he was at university and he hasn’t shown the slightest interest in anyone in a sexual manner since. That’s if you don’t include Miss Adler. Though I believe her mind and her games interested him more than her body.” Mycroft fiddled with his umbrella, spinning the handle under his fingers.

John slumped back in the seat.

“And I pushed him away.”

“I think the word ‘freak’ did more damage than the push but as I said it is not my place to fill in the details. I hope you and Sherlock will have the inclination to discuss this yourselves in the not too distant future. Suffice to say, the manner of the rejection may well open up old wounds and I’m afraid he may turn to chemical consolation.” Mycroft’s smile was strained.

“You weren’t to know John.”

“Oh god.” John rubbed his forehead.

“There is another more pressing complication.” Mycroft paused and John’s tension increased.

“As you are aware the neutralisation of Moriarty’s web was necessary to the continued well being of yourself and two others. Much happened to Sherlock in this process, the last man he had to take down was a professional assassin, hiding out with a terrorist cell on the Israel, Egypt border. Sherlock found his target and disposed of him, however in the process he discovered the cell had a hostage, the daughter of an American businessman working in Israel. Sherlock went back for the girl and managed to get himself captured by the cell. They thought he was a government agent. He was tortured John.”

John’s throat constricted and a feeling of dread washed over him. He forced himself to swallow and waited for Mycroft to continue.

“Again the details are not my business to discuss but he escaped. Though he did not escape unharmed. He was shot John, less than three months ago. I’m sure you can understand my eagerness to locate Sherlock before …before he does something idiotic.”

Nodding John sighed and then a thought suddenly struck him.

“Hang on a minute, why did he go back for the girl? I mean I know that’s what most people would do but Sherlock isn’t most people and he’s no soldier. You said he was alone. Why would he go back?”

“Well that’s something I’ve pondered on myself and the only conclusion I can come to is that Sherlock’s time with you has changed him …for the better I might add. Before meeting you I’m sure in a similar situation he would have focused solely on his goal and nothing else, now …he seems to be more …compassionate, maybe.”

“What happened to the girl?”

“He got her out, despite the gunshot wound and she was reunited with her family unharmed. I think it would be best to save anymore questions for Sherlock himself.”

John nodded again and hoped with all his being that he got the chance to do just that.

“Where are we going, do you know where he is?” John tried to keep the tremor from his voice and failed miserably. He was scared and he realized he was asking yet another question. He felt useless, confused and terribly guilty.

“There is a tracking device in his phone, it’s being monitored now, we should be able to find him soon.” Mycroft gazed at the city passing by them.

“Thank god.” 

“I have a question for you now John.” Mycroft did not turn and continued to gaze out the window. “How do you feel about about my brother?”

John shouldn’t have been surprised by the question, Mycroft had always been protective of Sherlock, even if the method of that protection had been twisted by most people’s standards. John sat opened mouthed for a few moments and then the words he spoke at Sherlock’s graveside came back to him. Despite all of Sherlock’s weirdness, all the things that drove John to want to tear out his hair and murder the infuriating bastard, he was the best man John had ever known.

“He’s my best friend….I…he…” John stopped, he wasn’t sure what he was trying to say.

“I realize today’s events have been taxing for you but I suggest you figure out exactly where your feelings for Sherlock lie as soon as possible. If my opinion makes any difference, I believe you are good for each other.”

Sitting back, John turned his head to watch the city slip by. Unconsciously his fingers moved to his lips, he ran the pad of his forefinger over his bottom lip and closed his eyes. For a moment John felt the soft curls at his cheek, he smelled the sandalwood and cedar that Sherlock favoured, a scent he didn’t know he missed, he felt the strong arms around him and those warm soft lips touched his. 

There was a brief moment of panic and a constriction in his chest. John drew in a deep breath and as he let it go, something else slipped away with it. A part of how he viewed himself changed. It was a small part, he realized now an unimportant part and even though he had much to explain to himself, he knew now that he wanted that kiss again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> These characters are not mine, I just enjoy torturing them!


	6. Chapter 6

"......and why the hell did you bring him here? What are we supposed to do with him?" An irritated female voice.

"But Rache, it's him, it's that Sherlock guy. You know the one that helped Jo and her poor little sister." A younger, pleading, female voice.

"You mean the fraud."

"Not according to this morning's papers." A third female voice.

Sherlock struggled to open his eyes, pain exploded in his head and he screwed them shut again, groaning.

"Rachel, Simone, get back out there, you can argue about this later." The third voice again.

A cool hand gently touched Sherlock's forehead and he turned away with another groan.

"Look you can be as petulant as you like when you're better but I'm telling you now, as a trained nurse, you had better let me continue to deal with these wounds or I'll be dumping you at the nearest A&E."

The voice was soft yet authoritative and immediately reminded Sherlock of John. He groaned again, this time it had nothing to do with physical pain. 

"There's no way I'm going to have my girls deal with a dead body."

\--------

Sherlock forced his eyes open, squinting into the light. 'Daylight, it must have been a few hours at least since ...' his thoughts trailed off. He could just about make out a fuzzy outline of a woman standing over him. His right hand moved down to his hip, fingers brushed over a fresh dressing and not much else. 

"Ah! Finally. Welcome back to the land of living. I'm afraid your clothes were long past saving, nothing can remove that much blood. The coat will make it though."

Sherlock tried to scan the room but his vision refused to co-operate. "W whe..?"

"Shhhh. Don't even try that yet. Your deductive skills are legendary but you really aren't in a fit state so I'll save you the trouble. This is, for want of a better term, a whore house, all be it an upmarket one and I am, for want of a better title, the Madam. I am also more than qualified to deal with your wounds, what I don't understand is why you thought a fist fight was good idea? That was a rhetorical question by the way. I have cleaned and restitched your wound, administered some non-opiate painkillers, considering your past history with drugs, not difficult to determine when there are old track marks on your inner elbows and hopefully made you comfortable."

"Do you ..al always talk this much?" 

As his vision began to clear Sherlock could see that he was indeed in a rather nice environment, not at all what the term 'whore house' would conjure in the mind's eye. The walls were smooth and white with intricate moldings of fruit and flowers where wall met ceiling. Fine art prints and in some cases originals, hung from brass hooks and chains on an equally elegant dado rail, in the style of a fine Victorian town house. The woman was tall and slender, mid forties and immaculate in appearance, long dark brown hair, minimal makeup and polished nails. She gazed down at him, mild concern in her hazel eyes. 

"Yes, I do tend to talk a lot which might be a blessing for you as you are not going anywhere or doing anything for a few days at least. Now I need to get some fluids into you. We'll start with a sip of water..." She said softly as she helped him to sit up against a pile of over stuffed pillows. "...then we'll see if you can hold down some tea or soup." Her voice was deep but feminine and she spoke with precision and care. 

Sherlock winced at the movement but gratefully accepted the offered glass of cool water. His mouth and throat were dry, the first swallow hurt but the second was smooth and welcome. He hated this feeling of helplessness. With a sigh he leaned back against the expensive damask pillows. Awareness of his state of undress came to him and pulled the Egyptian cotton sheets further up to his chest.

"I've seen it all before Mr Holmes." She smiled "And I've seen all of you, had to really, you were quite a mess and under all that blood, very nice I might add."

"Er..." Sherlock felt colour rising to cheeks and looked away.

"Oh don't worry I kept the girls at bay, though it wasn't easy. Do you have any idea how striking you are? I'm guessing probably not. I'm Ms Wallis by the way but you can call me Grace and yes that really is my name, if you were wondering. I know who you are and I know that you have recently returned to London. I also know that you have been vindicated, never did believe that awful Richard Brook character. What I don't understand is why you were lying in an alleyway slowly bleeding to death. Where's that army doctor of yours? I assume he knows you're back considering today's and yesterday's papers are all but falling over themselves to retract all that terrible stuff they published about you? I'm doing it again aren't I? Sorry."

Sherlock couldn't help the small smirk that tugged at his lips as she spoke but the mention of John wiped it from his face. "I ran into some questionable characters." He said slowly "The rest is a long and painful story. Why didn't you just call an ambulance?"

She shook her head. "I don't know exactly, it just felt right to bring you here. Want me to call someone for you?"

"NO!" Shocked at his own voice, Sherlock repeated 'no' more quietly. "Not yet."

Grace nodded and smiled gently. "Well maybe you'll feel like telling me your story when you're little stronger. You're not going to have much else to do."

\--------

"I see." Mycoft's voice was clipped and tight. He disconnected the call and turned to John. "My people have found his phone and some evidence of a scuffle."

"I assume that means they haven't found Sherlock?" John's jaw was tight, his teeth pressed hard together. "I want to see Mycroft."

"It might be best if I take you home John."

"No, I want to see."

Mycroft expelled a breath through his nose and nodded grimly. They didn't say anymore, each man silently bearing their worry.

The first thing John saw when stepped out of the sleek black car was a dark stain of blood on the asphalt by the skip. His stomach turned over unpleasantly and he swallowed down the bile threatening to rise in his throat. He walked slowly to it, taking in the scuff marks of heavy boots on the ground and cigarette ends, one of which was long with ash. That cigarette was dropped unfinished and left to burn, judging by the position in relation to the scuff marks, maybe flicked into the attackers face. 

John crouched by the blood stain his eyes raking over every detail but there was nothing to tell him where Sherlock might have gone from here, or even if he was still alive. A hand tentatively squeezed his shoulder, John looked up with surprise at the uncharacteristic show of affection and concern from Mycroft.

"I really think it best you go home now John. My people are searching all the hospitals in the area and scanning CCTV footage. You should be at 221B in case he returns."

"You really think that's likely?" John's voice was scathing "After this?" He gestured to the blood. "After what I ...said." He rubbed at his forehead "I can't sit at home and do nothing, I just can't."

"Take this and see if there is anything on it that might help us." Mycroft pressed Sherlock's phone into John's palm as he raised to standing once more. "I would rather you have it. He may try calling it. Please John, we can't do anymore here tonight."

Drawing a shaking breath, John nodded and reluctantly allowed himself to be led back to car. He would never forgive himself if Sherlock ... The thought went unfinished.

_______

Once back at Baker Street and a fresh cup of tea by his side, John opened Sherlock's phone with a sweep of his thumb. He frowned as It lit up, no password, that wasn't like Sherlock at all. He wasn't sure how long he sat there going through the phone, there were few numbers stored, none with names, no photos, no notes. In fact he found nothing until he opened the browser and there was a bookmarked page. The web address was nothing but a random series of numbers and letters as far as he could tell and it opened nothing but a blank page with flashing cursor. Here was required a password, here and not to open the phone as John had expected. 

He stared at the little blinking line, what should he try? Would it be something John could know, would know? Irene Adler's phone flashed across his mind, her password was linked to her heart but Sherlock wouldn't use something like that ..would he? No, unlikely but he would know that John would think of Irene. 

"Oh .. I wonder..."

John started to type V a t i c a n C a m e o s 

The screen went blank but before John had a chance to curse himself it changed and lit up again to what looked like some kind of online journal. Some entries were typed, others were photos of handwritten text, the paper dirty and torn, scribbled in pencil, sometimes ink.  
His tea long forgotten, John began to read.


End file.
